Thursday, June 3, 2010
An Open Letter To The Male Race
To Whom It May Concern,
I have a bone to pick with everyone who deemed me unimportant enough to warrant a return to my phone call, text message, email, letter, carrier pigeon message or smoke signal. With everyone who decided that I was unworthy of friendship, dinner companionship, phone callership or beer drinking comradeship because I felt no compulsion to be within a five-foot radius of their penis. With everyone who ever fed me a line of bullshit. With everyone who brought my feelings into play and then threw them in the trash like a used up copy of Us Weekly. You’re rude. Fuck you.
To the Peter Pan’s, so easily identified by their Ohio State Buckeyes T-shirt, two-day stubble and shot glass of tequila raised in salute to eternal adolescence. Grow up and learn some manners. Please realize that not returning a phone call, a text message, an email, a dinner invitation or a request to get together is rude. If I call you, call me back. It’s very simple. If you don’t want to see me just say so. Or lie. Lying is excusable. Rudeness is not. And while you’re at it try a real relationship on for size. By no means am I encouraging, or even condoning, the social propaganda known fondly as the institution of marriage, but that doesn’t mean that your closet relationship should be with your bottle on Don Julio or that your longest relationship should be fail to weather all four seasons.
To the liar’s and the insensitive ones. Please realize that when you involve emotions you are fucking with someone’s life. If I tell you that we can just keep in casual, I mean that. There is no need to add my soul to your conquest roster. My ass will do thank you very much. So don’t tell me you love me, and will be there fore me. Don’t beg me to let my guard down and don’t wonder, with big, honest, scared eyes, if I will pull the rug out from under you. If you want to have meaningless sex, at least have the decency to tell me that, and only that. Don’t promise me the world just to leave me with nothing.
To the rich boys. Stop with the wine and the jewelry, the exotic vacations and the fancy clothes. Those who don’t want to be friends first and lovers second (or never) need not apply. Your black Amex, fancy Porsche and ability to mispronounce the fancy bottle of champagne you are ordering, does not impress me. It makes me want to vomit.
To God’s gift to all women. Please realize that just because I show interest, or even kiss you, does not mean that I will fuck you. Contrary to what you may think of the twenty-something, free spirit, who abhors children, shutters at the thought of marriage, is vehemently independent and is more likely to run away to climb the Andes with an Ecuadorian named Diego than settle in the burbs with a Clevelander named Stan, I have morals. I even (gasp of horror and disbelief) call myself a Christian and possess a shiny set of good, wholesome as wheat bread, Midwestern, Christian values. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve worked very hard at having a one-night. Just one. I’ve tried. And to this day I’ve never successfully had a one-night stand. I just can’t do it in good conscience. And the dozens upon dozens of men who have promptly ceased all contact with me as soon as they learned that I wouldn’t sleep with them is staggering. And depressing. And extremely lonely. It not-so-blatantly, or blatantly perhaps, says that I have no worth as a person outside of my ability serve as a life-sized, talking sex toy.
Will you all stop trying to marry me, fuck me, make me your girlfriend, take my clothes off or some combination thereof? I just want a friend. So badly I can almost taste it (what does a friend taste like anyway?). And I’m a really good friend. I’m kind of crazy, a little eccentric and highly neurotic. But rock as a wingwoman. I get guys laid all the time. Just not by me. Give it some thought. Ad while you’re at it go ahead and grow up. Stop behaving like a two-year old who is either throwing a tantrum, impulsively (or perhaps compulsively) sticking his finger in the light socket, hitting the girl he likes on the playground or playing with his junk just because it’s hanging between his legs.
Author's Note: I didn't want to publish another letter so quickly but after my conversation with Judy, Elyssa and Angela the other night, I had to. Cheers ladies!